Wednesday, January 17, 2018

The Other Side of the Path


            On Saturday, January 13, 2018, I received one of the greatest honors of my life when I was invited to speak at the 33rd Annual Freedom Fund Banquet of the NAACP.  In addition to honoring me as the speaker, the NAACP also presented me with a Shoaf-Crump Award for Community Service. 

            A number of people have asked me for a copy of my speech.  I don’t always use a manuscript and when I do, what I say is never exactly what is on the paper.  The stories that I share of growing up in Alabama are stories that I share from my heart and experience.  I have tried to write down the essence of the story so the reader will at least have an idea of what I was talking about.

            A manuscript cannot begin to do justice to the excitement, energy, and enthusiasm that filled the large YMCA Banquet facility that night.   For the first time ever the banquet was sold out.  When Bishop Green prayed so eloquently and powerfully for the Lord to send his Spirit—He did!  It was electric and dynamic.   The response I received from God’s people who were filled with His Spirit that night was amazing. 

            Here is a copy of my speech:



      To Elder Gloria Cross and the officers of the NAACP, to Mayor Clark and all the elected officials who join us here tonight, to Banquet Chair Lula Hairston and all the members of the Banquet Committee, to members of NAACP who are gathered here, to members of the clergy, I want you to know that from the moment Elder Cross called me months ago and extended this gracious invitation to be your speaker tonight, you have bestowed upon me one of the greatest honors of my life.  I am deeply humbled and eternally grateful.

            My friend Rosa Terry shared an overly generous and gracious introduction for which I was deeply humbled.  I wish my mother could have heard it because she would have believed it!  Rosa is always so wonderful to work with.

            I acknowledged the members of my church who were in attendance.   I was grateful for their presence.  Also, to my son, Ray Nance, my daughter-in-law Sang, and my wonderful wife Joyce of 40 years who is always by my side and I could not do the things I do without her. 

   Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that.  Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.

Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God.

            It started with a pilgrimage.  Ninety-four years ago a Baptist minister named Michael went on a life-changing pilgrimage with a group of ministers to the Holy Land, where they walked in the footsteps of Jesus.   On the way home they went to Germany where they attended the 1934 meeting of the Baptist World Alliance. 

            They took a side trip to the city of Wittenberg.  There they walked in the footsteps of the great reformer of the 16th century, Martin Luther.  Michael was so deeply moved, so inspired, so convicted by the example of the great reformer who stood before the authorities and the governmental and the ecclesiastical powers and when told he must recant his views he responded.  “My soul is captive to the Word of God.  Here I stand, I can do no other!”

            This experience had such a powerful impact on Michael, that when he returned home he changed his name and the name of his 5 year old son from Michael to Martin Luther.  He was no longer Rev. Michael King, Sr, but now he was the Rev. Martin Luther King, Sr. and his son, his son Martin Luther King, Jr. became the greatest reformer of the 20th Century. 

            In a small town in Alabama in 1962 a little 8 year old boy rode his bicycle down to the L&N railroad depot to meet the afternoon train as he often did.  This afternoon the street behind the depot was packed with hundreds, maybe thousands of people.  That little boy watched as a short man in a blue suit stood up on a platform and as he started to speak people shouted and cheered and whistled.   But his words were chilling and caustic.   His words were vicious and vitriolic, they were full of anger and hatred, words that were evil and malicious, words that incited the crowd, striking the deepest recesses of their souls and appealing to their darkest fears and insecurities---

            As the people screamed and whistled and stomped their feet and pounded their fists, the little boy was scared.  He witnessed a mob mentality.  He had never seen people so angry, never seen people that vindictive, never seen people so full of hatred.  He could see the darkness enveloping him; he could feel the hatred pounding him.

            He got on his bicycle and rode away as fast he could, as he did he could hear that short man who was running for governor, a man named George Corey Wallace shouting:  “Segregation today, Segregation tomorrow, Segregation forever!”

            I was that little boy. 

I rode my bicycle back to my house.  We had a nice brick house on Main Street.  Behind my house we had a big back yard with two huge pecan trees, with a field where we played ball, and then there was a path and that path led through a lots of trees and bushes, a path that led to a different world, a path that I would often take, to the African American community in my hometown. 

            My topic this evening is “The other side of the path”  

            I would go down that path to see my dear Bess, Mabell Johnson.  I remember one hot summer day that Bess and I were sitting in the back yard shucking corn.  Bess was doing most all the shucking, and I was listening to Bess talk about life.  My mother had gone to visit somebody who had a new baby and Bess told me that people had it all mixed up.  She said we should be rejoicing when someone dies because all of the pain, the heartache, the tribulations and suffering were finally over.   That’s when we should rejoice.  She said, when a baby is born we should weep—because that child is born into a world of injustice, and trouble, and heartache, problems and pain. 

            I didn’t know what Bess was talking about.  Not then, anyway.  There were a lot of things I didn’t realize back then. I never thought about the fact that Bess was black and I was white.  I never pondered the inequity of the fact that she lived on side of the path and I lived on the other.  Even though we said she was like a member of our family, I know now that wasn’t true.  She didn’t sit down to eat with us like a family member would.  Bess didn’t go to the movies with us, she didn’t go to church with us.  I didn’t realize that it wouldn’t have been “proper.” Or in some cases illegal.  Even though my parents would never tolerate any racist remarks, Bess was still “the help.” 



        She never graduated from high school because she left school to work for my grandmother. Bess couldn’t walk down Main Street.  She couldn’t eat in the same restaurants, drink out of the same water fountain or even ride in the same seats on the bus as white people. I was welcomed at Bess’s church, but there was a man who carried a gun to our church to make sure Bess and any other person of color knew that they were not welcomed there. I remember the well-worn path behind her house that led to the outhouse.  We had two indoor bathrooms at our house before she even had one.



           In spite of all of these differences, Bess loved me and cared for me like I was her own.  And in many ways, I was.  I loved Bess and looked up to her.  She had a way of putting everything in the right perspective.  She taught me so much about life, about forgiveness, and about faith. I remember walking down to the other side of the path to visit Bess at her little house.  There were three pictures hanging on the wall:  Jesus, John F. Kennedy, and Martin Luther King, Jr.  I didn’t understand why she had those three pictures, but I do now.  Three men who believed in justice.  Three men who believed in equality.  Three men who gave her hope.   



       I remember a hot August day in 1963 and Bess and I were watching a special on my grandmother’s TV.  Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, the man who was named for the great reformer, was speaking from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.  My small heart soared with his eloquent words of justice and equality. I remember so well Dr. King saying, “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

        I wanted his dream to become my dream.  I wanted to live in a world where all the paths led to equality and not disparity, where justice rolled down waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.  I wanted to live in a nation that would live out its creed; We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal.  And one day we will be free at last, free at last.   I remember Bess watching, but not saying much. 

 It was like she knew more trouble was to come.



        And that trouble came just three weeks later on a Sunday morning.   I got up and put on my little suit and went to Sunday school, where we sang Jesus loves the little children.   Four of those precious children that Jesus loved were also getting ready for church that day not far from me.   Denise, Addie Mae, Carol and Cynthia had beautiful dresses that they wore to Sunday School where their lesson was titled the Love that Forgives.  In the middle of their Sunday School lesson a bomb exploded at the 16th Street Baptist Church taking the lives of those 4 little girls. 

            In 1956, when Dr. King was pastor in Montgomery, he was at a meeting one night and someone threw a bomb into his house that could have easily killed his wife and baby.  Dr. King arrived at the house there was a huge crowd ready to burn Montgomery to the ground.  But Dr. King spoke words of calm and forgiveness.   He said, We must love our enemies.  We must meet hate with love.

                        "Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that." 

            One day I went to the other side of the path to play with my good friends Herman and James.  We always had the best time playing together.  

            One day we decided to go to town---they couldn’t walk down Main Street. It wasn’t proper.    Store owner grabbed me and shook me and shouted in my face, “Little Howell, what are you doing hanging around with those little N boys. Wait until I tell your father—he will straighten you out!”   

            Barber Shop---the barber bragged about caring a gun to church to keep the N out, since he had a straight razor at the back of my neck, I just listened, but I could see the darkness enveloping   me, I could feel the hatred pounding me.   I knew it wasn’t right---We welcomed missionaries in our church who took the Gospel to Africa, but a man had a gun to keep African-American citizens out of our church—that is not right.  

            Freedom of Choice—In 1964 in an effort to circumvent the federal order to desegregate the schools, George Wallace instituted a “freedom of choice” program where each student could decide where he or she wanted to attend school.  According to historical reports, only a handful of black students requested a white school and no white students wanted to attend a black school.  But that was wrong.

            There was one.

            The day they handed us the paper I started thinking about where I wanted to go to school the next year.  It made perfect sense to me to attend the “Training School” that was black.  My friends, Herman and James, went there, Bess was next door, it was a short walk and I would not have to ride the bus.  To me it made perfect sense.

            There is one minor thing I should mention.  I forgot to get my mother to sign the form.  The next day I turned it in, signing her name on it.   When I got home that afternoon my mother was shaken—but not because of what I had done.   She had received a phone call that day from the principal asking her if she had lost her everlasting mind!   “What do you mean sending your son that that N school!”  he screamed.  He can’t get an education there!”  He went on to chew her out in royal fashion and told her there was no way I was going to attend that N school.  (She did tell me I should have told her what I planned to do.)

            April 9, 1968 was the only time I ever saw Bess cry.  Sitting in front of the TV at my grandmother’s house—watching Dr. King’s funeral.  I watched Bess use her apron to wipe her tears and I thought about those 3 pictures, three men who fought for justice, freedom, all three dead---and I watched Bess wipe the tears than ran down her face.  And then she walked home to the other side of the path.

            Our high school eventually integrated but we did not have an issue, primarily because we won the state basketball championship.  Everybody was happy!

            One week before my HS graduation, the short man who spoke words of evil and darkness was shot, he was paralyzed and in pain the rest of his life.

            I graduated from HS and went to college.  James graduated from HS and went to Vietnam. 

            Working in a church in LA (lower Alabama)  A lady told me one day she wanted to talk to me about her father.  I did not know she was George Wallace’s daughter.  She said the man who shouted those words about segregation and the man who spoke such evil was not her father.  Deep down inside he is a good man, a loving and forgiving man, she told me.   George Wallace actually ran for governor in 1958 with the endorsement of the NAACP.  Then he sold his soul to the devil.   She told me about that Sunday in 1963 when the little girls had been killed.  About how deeply that affected him—but he did change.   The next year he stood in the schoolhouse door to prevent a black student from enrolling in the University of Alabama. 

Words are nothing more than words, until they are incarnated into action.

            But then he was shot, then he was in pain, then he was suffering.  And he found his soul that he had lost years before for political gain.

            Suffering from his assassination attempt, George Wallace spent every Sunday going to churches asking for forgiveness.  1982 he was elected Gov of the State of Alabama for the final time.  The racists, the segregationists, the haters, the bigots, had all turned against him.  But George Wallace received over 90% of the black vote and was elected Governor for a fourth term.

       In 1995 on the 30th anniversary of the Selma march, he welcomed the marchers to Montgomery with open arms, and one by one as the marchers came and they hugged the former Gov. he whispered, please forgive me, please forgive me, I love you.

               Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that.  Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.



            A number of years ago I went to DC for a conference.  I got up early in the morning and went to the Lincoln Memorial.  I stood on the very place where Dr. King with power and eloquence articulated his dream for all to hear. 

            Then I walked down to the Vietnam Memorial.  I stood there, all alone, looking at the 58,000 names on the wall.  My first thought was, but by the grace of God. . .   my name could have easily been on that wall.  If I had not gone to college after high school graduation, I would have been drafted.  But then I realized that it wasn’t just the grace of God that kept my name off of that wall, it was because I lived on the other side of the path.  You see, my friend James, his name is on that wall, because he lived on the other side of the path.  James could not afford to go to college, he went to Vietnam.  He could not walk down Main Street in his hometown but he could give his life for his county.  He died for his country because he lived on the other side of the path.

            As I was standing there I recalled the words of Dr. King, “            In the end we will remember not the words of our enemies but the silence of our friends.”

I made a commitment that day—a commitment to God, a commitment to justice and righteousness and a commitment to my friend James, that I will not be silent.  I will not be silent until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

I thought about that frightening scene when I was 8, I cannot be silent.

 I thought of Bess wiping her tears with her apron and I knew I could not be silent. 

   I thought of that school principal who asked my mother if she had lost her mind, and I cannot be silent.

    I thought of that usher who carried a gun to church to keep people out of the house of God and I cannot be silent. 




       George Wallace’s daughter remained quiet, in the background, until one day she was in Atlanta with her young son and she took him to the King Center, he was looking a pictures of the racial unrest of the 60s.  He saw pictures of men and women being beaten by police, of dogs and fire hoses turned on innocent citizens and he looked at his mother and asked, “Why did Papa do those things”  

            She looked at her son and said, “Papa was wrong.  But we must work to make it right.”

    Last year, much publicized 50th anniversary of the march, when the marchers reached Montgomery, George Wallace’s daughter and there holding hands with MLK’s daughter Bernice to welcome the marchers.

Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that.  Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.

            Dear friends as long as there is injustice, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”  We cannot be silent.

            As long as we hear words from our elected leaders that are chilling and caustic, vicious and vitriolic: words full of anger and hatred, words that are evil and malicious—we cannot be silent.

            Let us open our mouths and speak up! 

            We cannot be silent.   



   Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that.  Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.

Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God.

   Here is the report of the event in the Dispatch: